


In Time

by ForgottenChesire



Series: Kinktober 2018 [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Kinktober 2018, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgottenChesire/pseuds/ForgottenChesire
Summary: He doesn’t remember much. He remembers thudding against people. The half-formed snarls on their faces. He remembers the circle around Sherlock. Of begging to see him.“He’s my friend. Please. My Alpha. Please.”He remembers sobbing and clutching at Sherlock. They hadn’t been lovers. Hadn’t been boyfriends. But John had adored Sherlock with every bone in his body. Somehow he was pulled away. Sent home to a flat he used to share. Blood stained clothes drop to the floor as he stumbles into the shower not caring about the cold water. The cold water mixes with his warm tears. A sharp pain jabs him in his stomach. Like being punched repeatedly it makes him stumble forward. A gasping inhale as he tries to stabilize himself. Cramping like it’s his first Heat again he looks down. Looks down and sees blood slipping down his leg. Watches as it pinkens with the addition on water. He yells, calls out a name that makes his very soul hurt because that person will never enter the flat again. Legs moving he falls back. Head hits the wall and he’s left sitting there.





	In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Day 24 Shower/Tub
> 
> WARNING: Semi-graphic description of a miscarriage. Later discussions of child loss. The general angst that comes with losing a child.

There is a moment of dread when John looks up and up. When he sees Sherlock on the roof of Saint Barts. And not just on the roof but the bloody incorrigible Alpha is on the ledge.

 

_ “No, friends protect people.” _

 

The last words he spoke face to face with his best friend ring in his ears. His hands grip his mobile tightly.

 

“Oh god.”

 

_ Oh god. Oh god. What is he doing? _

 

**“I… I… I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”**

 

The catch in Sherlock’s voice causes him to shiver. He knows that catch. Has heard it in the voices of soldiers who have made a decision that can’t be undone.

 

“What’s going on?” He wants Sherlock to deny it. To say this is all an experiment. The air around him is filled with the scent of his anguish. All around him people stop, look at him in pity. An Omega smelling as he does, it gathers attention. But no one stops. No one asks.

 

**“An apology. It’s all true.”**

 

“What?” his voice cracks.  _ Please no. _

 

**“Everything the said about me. I invented Moriarty.”**

 

“Why are you saying this?”

 

**“I’m a fake.”**

 

_ Please stop. Please. _

 

“Sherlock…”

 

**“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”**

 

A soft growl builds in John’s throat.

 

“Okay, shut up, shut up. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?” he points out. It’s still something that amazes him to this day. That the Alpha had spoken so confidently and the only thing he got wrong was about Harry’s gender. 

 

**“Nobody could be that clever,”** Sherlock denies. There is a sound. Maybe a hitch. Like he’s about to start crying.

 

“You could.”

 

John’s voice is trembling but sure. Because Sherlock was clever and no one can ever change his mind. Sherlock laughs in his ears. A broken sound.

 

**“I researched you. Before we met. I had to know all about the Omega that Mike wanted me to meet. Thought was special enough. Discovered everything that I could to impress you,”** another hitch in Sherlock’s voice,  **“A trick. Just a magic trick to endear you to me.”**

 

He says that like they’re lovers. Like he betrayed John. But they’re just friends. Just friends, that is what Sherlock told him every morning after. He didn’t want an Omega. And hearing Sherlock speak like that, where he is.

 

“No,” John snarls his body starting to move, “all right, stop it now.”

 

It’s a demand. A plea. Just stop. Step off the edge. Then Sherlock’s voice comes through the phone. Rough. Panicked. Commanding.

 

“No! Stay exactly where you are,” the command vibrates down his spine. In the bedroom, it would make him hard. So very hard. But out here? On the street? It scares him. So he stops, he backs up.

 

“All right,” it’s a whisper. He feels so… so lost. He has to get to Sherlock. He needs to.

 

“Just keep your eyes fixed on me. Please? Will you do that for me?” 

 

“Do… do what?” he doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to keep looking but he can’t look away. 

 

“This phone call, it’s, um…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and John knows. He knows and he wants to fall into the stereotype and break down. But he can hear the tears in Sherlock’s voice loud and clear. And like when he was a child he keeps his in.

 

“It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note for those they care about?”

 

“Leave a note when, Alpha?”

 

It’s not a slip of the tongue. It’s a horrible, cruel thing to say. But he wants Sherlock to stay alive. He wants Sherlock to step off the ledge. And he hopes the Alpha instincts that Sherlock has, responds to the whisper. That he’ll stop.

 

“Goodbye, John.”

 

He hears the dying  _ vrring _ of the phone before his phone slips out of hand. His voice wobbles, cracks, dies as he calls out.

 

“No! Don’t! Sherlock!” 

 

He can’t move as he watches as Sherlock falls, arms pinwheeling. His stomach cramps and he can’t move until the body collides with the concrete.

 

“Sherlock,” he whimpers.

 

He doesn’t remember much. He remembers thudding against people. The half-formed snarls on their faces. He remembers the circle around Sherlock. Of begging to see him.

 

“He’s my friend. Please. My Alpha. Please.”

 

He remembers sobbing and clutching at Sherlock. They hadn’t been lovers. Hadn’t been boyfriends. But John had adored Sherlock with every bone in his body. Somehow he was pulled away. Sent home to a flat he used to share. Blood stained clothes drop to the floor as he stumbles into the shower not caring about the cold water. The cold water mixes with his warm tears. A sharp pain jabs him in his stomach. Like being punched repeatedly it makes him stumble forward. A gasping inhale as he tries to stabilize himself. Cramping like it’s his first Heat again he looks down. Looks down and sees blood slipping down his leg. Watches as it pinkens with the addition on water. He yells, calls out a name that makes his very soul hurt because that person will never enter the flat again. Legs moving he falls back. Head hits the wall and he’s left sitting there.

 

“John? Oh dear!”

 

The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and apples tickles his nose before an old weathered hand touches his face. Mrs. Hudson. His eyes dart up to her then back down to the blood pooling around him. He hears her talking into the phone. Hears the word miscarriage. But that can’t be. His secondary fertility has gone down to almost infertile due to his overzealous use of birth control and heat suppressants. Since he was sixteen he maybe allowed himself one Heat every three years. When he left the military he went off the birth control which is when he learned he had destroyed any chance of bearing children. He… can’t be. He can’t!

 

“No.”

 

“Calm down dearie.”

 

“Please. Please, I can’t… I  _ can’t _ .”

 

Mrs. Hudson pats his hair, the water turned off. She talking but he can’t hear. He closes his eyes. This is just a nightmare. Nothing more. Nothing less. The pain grows sharper, more pressing as his stomach churns, turn. It feels like he’s peeing himself but it’s too thick, too warm. Just a nightmare.

 

John wakes up. Not in his room, not in Sherlock’s, but in a hospital room. Greg and Mycroft are asleep in the hardback chairs. Not a nightmare then. He closes his eyes and wishes that he had died with Sherlock.

 

“John?”

 

Mycroft wasn’t as asleep as John thought.

 

“Was I?”

 

Silence. Sobs fill the air.

 

_ Two years later. _

 

John climbs into the luxurious shower, the water warm and like a gentle massage against his bare skin. They say time heals. They say with distance comes closure. Those who say that don’t know anything. Or maybe there just hasn’t been enough time. Living with Greg and Mycroft has been a blessing. They’ve grieved with him. Kept him from letting the loss of Sherlock and the baby. The baby that was too small to survive, too have a sex. 

 

In a way, he’s punishing himself by coming in here. Ever since that night showers… showers cause his heart to pound, his chest to feel like a weight is being pressed down on it, lungs fighting to fill. But he needs to be punished. Greg has told him over and over it’s not his fault. Has pressed gentle kisses to his stomach while whispering sweet words. Mycroft reads him facts from medical journals he’s already read. But it’s easy to read that the first three months of a pregnancy are the most likely time for miscarriages. That Jim Moriarty was the cause of his stress that triggered his. On this day he can’t stand to hear it.

 

Arms wrap around him. Warming him, buffering him from the now cold water. The smell of fresh bread, cut wood, and wet grass. Greg. He looks up at the older Beta. He’s just so tired.

 

“I know you are.”

 

They sit in the cold. Neither really speaking. Until Greg speaks up again.

 

“Me and Mycroft… we’ve lost babies too. Two pregnancies. The first one was in the first month. The second in the third.”

 

“The other crosses.”

 

“The other crosses. Charlie and Alex.”

 

Greg leans over, kissing John gently. They pull apart and Greg rests his forehead on John’s. His hands cup John’s head.

 

“I get it. Some of it. I get the loss of a child. It never really goes away. It’s this little pit in your heart. A spot. That pulses at unexpected moments. But it dulls. You learn to go on. To live. I wanted to bring it up, every time I smelt your pain. But I didn’t want you to think I was trying to… to make it a contest. And while you do that me and Mycroft will be here for you.”

 

“Indeed. I hope you don’t mind but I thought you’d like to picnic with Eden.”

 

It’s Mycroft. The Alpha is standing there, a soft look typically reserved for Greg’s children when they come over, on his face. There is a small wicker basket in his hands.

 

“Ta,” John whispers accepting Greg’s help up. His lovers are kind, patient as they dry him off. He doesn’t let them help dress him. Needs the independence even on this day. They kiss him on the cheek and let him go out to the Rowan tree where his child is buried. The checkered blanket is smoothed out and little snack foods brought out. He pauses. Looks toward the house. 

 

“You never got to meet them but your uncles are more than I deserve. I think you would have loved them as much as I do. I know Greg would spoil you. Mycroft, god I bet no matter what you’d have him wrapped around your finger,” he speaks lowly at first and then his voice strengthens. He looks back at the house and smiles.

 

“I hope Alex and Charlie are watching out for you and that you’re looking down at us.”

 

He kisses his finger and then presses them to the ground. Later he’ll bring his lovers out to talk to his baby. Maybe weasel a few stories about Sherlock when he was younger.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
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